


Cautionary Tale

by evil_whimsey



Series: 2012 Trope Bingo (Multifandom) [5]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 03:55:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5482415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evil_whimsey/pseuds/evil_whimsey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Ah, but listen to me gossiping, when you're suffering severe dehydration and lack of sun," said his visitor, with a perverse cheerfulness that yanked a staggering chunk of Tezuka's memory back to the forefront of his consciousness.  </i>
</p>
<p>Amnesty fic from 2012 Trope Bingo, entry for the "Creature Fic" trope, and utterly twisted homage to "The Metamorphosis", by Franz Kafka.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cautionary Tale

One morning, when Tezuka Kunimitsu woke from troubled dreams, he found himself transformed in his bed into a monstrous cactus. His pale green body was bristling with sharp spines, his long torso was almost too stiff to flex, and his two arms had only a single joint each, more or less where his elbows had been the day before. He had neither shoulders, nor hands, nor legs, properly speaking.

He didn't need to look at his bedside alarm clock to know he was grievously late for tennis club practice; the bright sun through the nearby window told him all. He could only hope Ryuuzaki-sensei would forgive him for having to unlock the club facilities herself, and would appoint someone reasonably awake and responsible for temporary captain, until Tezuka could get there.

"Kunimitsu," his mother called softly through his bedroom door. "Aren't you having breakfast this morning?"

"Hnn," he answered in the negative, finding that his throat felt parched and strangely _fibrous_. That might explain why he'd overslept; he must be coming down with something.

But just as he had no time for breakfast this morning, Tezuka equally had no time to loiter about with any illness. The Regional meets were coming up soon, and his team needed all his close oversight to keep them from slacking on their training discipline. One way or another, he had to get to school, today.

However as he soon discovered, this was far easier said than done. Having awakened on his back, he now noticed that the long needles protruding from his green flesh had pierced through his bedsheet and mattress. And when he forced his stiff, stumpy arms down to try and leverage himself up, the spines on his arms stuck too.

As the minutes ticked past and the urgency of his timetable loomed ever larger, Tezuka became vigorous in his movements to free himself, and then careless, which was how he ended up shredding most of his bed and painfully tearing several spines loose from his skin, in the process. When he finally managed to half-roll, half-heave himself from his wrecked bed and half onto the floor, he was shaking with exertion and all over his back and arms were tiny seeping stinging wounds, where his spines had ripped out.

Right about that time, came a slight commotion outside his door. "There's a boy from your tennis club here to see you, dearest," called his mother. "Won't you say hello to Momoshiro-san?"

And then his grandfather put in a few words. "You shouldn't worry your mother like this, Kunimitsu. If you can't open the door, we need to come in and have a look at you."

_No, that certainly isn't necessary,_ Tezuka wanted to say. But he was trying too hard to muster the energy for that last shove up so he could stand, and get himself dressed, and then open his own damned door. Words would only be a waste of effort, and anyway they would see he was perfectly capable of facing the day, once he got himself out there.

Only it didn't turn out that way. He had just managed to struggle upright, with a jarring thump as the blunt base of him hit the floor, and was still swaying precariously when the door was suddenly opened wide.

"Oi, Buchou, Inui-senpai sent me over to--," began Momoshiro, standing behind Tezuka's mother, before the words died off and his eyes went huge and horrified. "What....what the _hell_?"

Tezuka's mother's eyes were wide as well, and one of her small hands rose to cover her mouth, while the other clutched at the fabric of her cooking apron. All color drained from her face, and then a single tear spilled down her white cheek. When she swayed on her feet, Tezuka's grandfather stepped in, supporting her about the shoulders, looking grim and stiff and all at once, older than Tezuka had ever seen him.

"Ayana-chan," he told Tezuka's mother, in a dry gray voice. "Why don't you go sit in the kitchen for a bit."

Behind them, Momoshiro had been backing himself up unsteadily, until he hit the doorframe of the linen closet and jolted like he'd been shot. "Sorry. I should--very sorry, for imposing on you all, I'll get out of the way, now."

He stumbled off, and Tezuka's mother let out a tiny sob, and Tezuka's grandfather reached for the bedroom doorknob.

"When my son gets home," he said, though Tezuka wasn't exactly sure to whom. "We will discuss matters then." And with that, the old man swung the door shut, leaving Tezuka alone in his bedroom once more. The quiet dropped ends of words followed Tezuka's mother and grandfather back down the hall, and out at the front of the house, the entry door banged on Momshiro's hasty exit.

 

From that point on, Tezuka had no clear plan of action. His one schoolmate's reaction seemed a clear indicator that going on with his usual schedule was not exactly a viable option. Not to mention the more immediate problem: he had no way of actually opening his bedroom door again. Even if he could propel himself over to the door somehow, he had no appendages with which to work the knob.

It appeared all he could do was stand stationary, here on this rug in the middle of his small bedroom. He felt strangely ambivalent about that; a reaction he was no more accustomed to than he was accustomed to not having hands. Tezuka never stood around indecisively when there were things to be done, neither did he waste energy or effort, in situations where there was nothing to be done. Problem was, he had no clear idea which scenario this was, or what the correct response should be.

Should he, for instance, be worrying about the tennis team? He was their Captain, they were his responsibility, and it was a responsibility he'd always taken with utmost seriousness. But what could he possibly do for them now?

He found himself at a loss to answer that. Did his present condition mean he was absolved of his duties? Besides tennis, there was his schoolwork, his place on the Student Council. Considering he couldn't open his own bedroom door, it didn't seem likely he could participate in any of these.

As he thought through it all, there gradually stole over him a disquieting sensation of lightness, as with a large balloon or a water float perhaps, coming slowly untethered. He found himself observing the sunlight falling through the window, creeping steadily across his bedroom floor. He couldn't remember whether he'd ever stood and simply watched such a thing before, and began to wonder whether time wasn't behaving somewhat differently for him now.

It's quite possible that was the case, for in what seemed like a fairly brief timespan, the room was growing dimmer, and he caught the familiar sounds of evening activity around the house. His mother, running water in the kitchen sink, opening that one cupboard with the squeaky hinge. The whistle of the tea kettle, and his grandfather's footsteps thudding softly down the hall toward the bath.

He was sure he had never consciously catalogued all these sounds, and yet he could place each one. The faint, distant percussion of the closing front door, indicating his father had just come in. The corresponding increase of sound in the kitchen, from his mother managing both the tea she would soon greet him with, and the final stage of dinner preparation. And then there was the door to the bath sliding shut; grandfather making his way out, carrying with him the lingering air of soap and steam and clean yukata.

Tezuka wondered whether this was the last time he would hear this routine carried out so predictably. For soon enough, his parents and grandfather would talk; his father would learn what had happened, then he would come in and see, and as to what would transpire then, Tezuka could hardly guess.

 

As it turned out, it was fairly anticlimactic. There was a longish lull in activity around the house, presumably while his family ate dinner, and then came his father's decisive footsteps in the hall, followed by the bedroom door opening once again.

And there stood his father, regarding him gravely for a long moment. Off to the side, Tezuka could just see the edge of his mother's dress peeking past the door frame.

"Been like this all day?" his father asked. From his mother, came a small sound in the affirmative.

"Well." His father took in the torn bedding, and the rest of Tezuka's room, undisturbed. His eyes lingered briefly on Tezuka's sports bag and school satchel, near his desk, before returning to study Tezuka's shape once again, paying particular attention to the thick woody base where Tezuka's feet had once been.

"Well. I see no need to lock him in. Doesn't appear he's going anywhere."

His mother let out the same hitch of a sob she had that morning, and Tezuka's father glanced at her. "This is not an ideal situation," he said, in the precise, steady voice he used often at his job. In the past, Tezuka had found it useful to adopt that voice, whenever he was given responsibility for people. No one ever argued with such a tone of authority. "But there will be no benefit in trying to avoid it."

And with that, his father turned and left the doorway, heading back down the hall. On the way, he called, "Otou-san. Can I interest you in a drink before you turn in?"

"Hm," agreed Tezuka's grandfather, his voice carrying from the dining area. "Believe I could get behind a good whiskey."

Near the doorway, where Tezuka's mother still lingered, there was a very quiet sigh. Then she too spoke. "I'll fetch the tumblers and ice."

**

When things were quiet, Tezuka found he tended to doze, without realizing it. He did not sleep, precisely, and didn't dream at all. He would simply find himself roused by nearby activity, and then discover that the light in his room had changed since he'd last noticed. He wasn't aware of drifting off, or what took place when he did. Just that one moment, he'd be following the sounds around the house, passing murmurs of conversation among his family. And once that subsided, there was the course of his thoughts to follow for awhile. But then that too would subside, and all would be still, until something caught his attention later on, and the cycle began anew.

In one of those periods, he awoke to a particular awareness of the sun pouring into his bedroom. He felt it as the faintest warm tingles running along the smooth rigid flesh between his spines. It was a tantalizing ghost of sensation, drawing a dry sort of pang from somewhere deep within him. Not unlike how the smell of food when he was hungry used to make his stomach twist and rumble.

Was this what hunger felt like, to his altered form? It seemed as if all the tiny cells and particles that comprised him were waking up, reaching out for the diffuse light all around, entirely independent of his volition. He had always resisted letting his body dictate terms to him; in the past, he'd employed strict mental discipline to make sure he stayed in charge of things like hunger, fatigue, pain, or strong emotions.

But now, it seemed his body's need was stronger than his will, and all his yawning cells were conspiring to bend him, tilt him toward the brighter sunbeams beckoning through the bedroom window. A point came where he realized he was in danger of toppling over, so far had he tilted toward the sunlight. 

The process must have taken hours, though; hardly had he noticed his change in position, than the sky was going dark, and the familiar patterns of evening activity were starting up around the house again.

Soon he heard his grandfather's tread in the hall, heading punctually off for his bath, just as always. And then at the open doorway, the man paused, looking in on him. Clearly he'd noticed that Tezuka had moved, although turned completely toward the window as he was, it was difficult for Tezuka to tell what his grandfather made of it.

After a longish moment of study, there came a _tsk_ , and a long, nearly-silent sigh. Then his grandfather walked on.

That night, his family must have convened in his father's nearby study after dinner, for he was able to make out more of their conversation than usual. They spoke of the house, handed down in the Tezuka family for four generations. His father mentioned his retirement pension, that someday they'd need to afford elder care. His mother wistfully commented how she'd thought they would have a doctor in the family some day. His grandfather shared some facts about the garden in back of the house.

"Soil's the wrong acidity," he told them. "The drainage isn't near adequate. He'd never make it through the rainy season."

They were all talking about him. How his current condition altered their future. Tezuka wouldn't be going to university in a few years. He wouldn't join the workforce, or take over the family home, or look after his parents in their old age.

And according to his ever-pragmatic grandfather, they couldn't properly look after him. Overnight, Tezuka had gone from a dutiful son and model student, to both a failure and a burden to his family. He'd abandoned his team and the friends who'd relied on him. In the orderly functioning of society, with all its courtesies and debts and complex interdependencies, he no longer had any place at all.

"I ought to have seen," his mother admitted, her voice tissue-thin. "He was always so self-reliant. I should have taken more care."

_I may as well have woken up a parasite,_ Tezuka thought, with a swelling bitterness previously unknown to him.

It lingered in him, that ugly blighted feeling, like a slow strangulation; for how long, he wasn't sure. The sun would rise, and Tezuka's flesh would strain toward it, like millions of tiny hands clawing at the air, more desperate every time. And over time, the pulpy rigidness of his shape was softening, wilting for lack of fluid and light. His spines stood out dry and sharp, and then one day began to simply drop out of him, here and there.

That was fine, he decided. Let his needles all fall dead to the rug, it wasn't as if he needed them. It would be best for everyone, if he just withered where he stood. Eventually all of him would be dead, just a dry green husk, and no one would mind discarding him along with the lawn clippings. 

It was only right that useless things should die off, decay and disappear, so that living things could properly flourish.

 

**

 

"Well, well, Tezuka. Never do anything halfway, do you." As if from a great distance, this new voice reached him, drawing his consciousness up from a heavy torpor. It was something different, and ever so faintly familiar. Something he must have known in a life before now. Whatever now was. Lately he'd been losing track.

"I hope you're not too attached to this room," the voice told him. "Because it's really not doing much for you, anymore."

Why should that matter, Tezuka thought? He was on his way to ending here anyway, why trouble over pointless details?

"Hm. Never thought I'd catch you sulking. You certainly never tolerated it in anyone else." Now the voice was quite close. He could feel the breath from it on his flesh, stirring in the dry sockets of his lost spines.

And that. That was decidedly unfamiliar. Though it did remind him of something, some flutter of ancient memory just beyond his grasp. This person wasn't part of the family; this was an entity who existed well outside any routine Tezuka could readily recall. Yet he was also certain that was typical for this visitor: existing outside routine, or any normal predictable boundaries that most people recognized.

"You know we had to sit through a two-hour assembly about hikkikomori, thanks to you." Teasing with the blunt truth; yes, Tezuka knew this voice well. How it used to get away with the most outrageous comments, thanks to the most placid and precisely calibrated smile Tezuka had ever seen.

"Now club participation's gone up eighty percent. The whole place is screaming with school spirit. It's unbearable."

_So, what?_ Tezuka wanted to answer. _You're saying I'm a cautionary tale, now?_

And wasn't that interesting. How long had it been, since he'd cared about answering anyone?

"Ah, but listen to me gossiping, when you're suffering severe dehydration and lack of sun," said his visitor, with a perverse cheerfulness that yanked a staggering chunk of Tezuka's memory back to the forefront of his consciousness. 

Fuji was the name, and now Tezuka had a thousand snapshot memories of the smile that went with it, and the mild offhand comments that sometimes felt like biting into tinfoil, and the tennis form that could only be properly described in mythological metaphors. Dragons that flew and breathed fire, the serpent consuming its own tail, the crane who danced for the Emperor under the full moon.

Fuji was a genius, Fuji was dangerous to the normal world in ways that couldn't even be quantified. And Fuji would never let Tezuka get away with wasting away to nothing.

If he were capable of feeling apprehension anymore, Tezuka thought this was likely the most appropriate situation for it. As it was, he could hardly muster even a wary curiosity about Fuji's intentions. Even after he drifted off for awhile, and woke to an intoxicating flood of sun and the piercing decadent pleasure of moisture soaking up through his base, throbbing in his cells and fibers, swelling his flesh until he thought he might burst, or else expire from the sheer dizzying arousal of it all.

When he was finally able to process anything outside the shameless hungry ripening of his own body, Tezuka discovered he was somewhere new. No longer in his room, but not entirely outdoors, either.

"Hope you like your greenhouse," Fuji provided one day. "My parents weren't ready to let us move to Tottori, and you're not ready for that much sun, yet."

Tezuka's impression of the greenhouse was that it was hot and bright and screamingly green. He didn't actually hate it. Even if Fuji kept tapping fingertips against his flesh, checking its firmness, and pulling out his camera to take photos of Tezuka from all angles.

"Naturally, you make a very dignified cactus," he explained, as though that should reassure Tezuka. "And I'm sure that one of these days, your family will surely want to see that I'm taking excellent care of you."

Tezuka thought that this was wishful thinking, at best. But then Fuji excelled at that, to a suspicious degree.

"You're bound to live such an awfully long time," he mused. "Just think, of all the photo albums I can make for you. I always thought you'd make an excellent subject, if only you'd consent to keep still for long enough."

And now, Tezuka reflected, he would get to live an abominably long time, in Fuji Syuusuke's dream come true. Whether or not this was better than getting his withered carcass tossed out with the lawn clippings, only the long decades ahead would tell.


End file.
